An Old Carioca
You can know people a long time, and then, spending some time with them, realize that what you’d been most fond of were actually projections of your own ideals, and that—shock!—these people are themselves, and of their time.
I’m talking about Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. I’ve spent more time with him than her—several Easter parades now—and he’s always so fine in his top hat and tails, and yet self-effacing, and not afraid to be awkward on occasion.
But he was young in the 1930s, and I shouldn’t have been so surprised, watching Flying Down to Rio, to realize that I was actually watching Avatar with big dance numbers:
Americans go to beautiful, tropical locale. Are awed. (Fred and friends, watching the Brazilians dance the carioca, exclaim, “Our foxtrot can never compete with this!”) But when the Americans take to the dance floor, surprise! They’re better than the Brazilians at the Brazilians’ own dance! And the Brazilians clear the dance floor for them! And hire them for their biggest shows!
The film’s conclusion is brought about by the blend of technology, skill, showmanship and moxie we’d like to copyright as uniquely American. Fred and his cohorts do a stunning aerial dance number that defeats the machinations of the evil, (literally) faceless corporate-types, and the white guy gets the ‘exotic’ girl, because true love (at first sight) always wins.
The film is stunningly, casually colonialist. And yet, agape, I enjoyed it, and its “Just a Gigolo” motif.
Sometimes it’s best to think about what’s best in people and ignore the rest.
Fred, Ginger, we’re still friends.
But if you start dancing in mechanized suits, all bets are off.
